


Just The Sidekick

by besully (Briar_Elwood)



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Earp Vendetta Ride, Gen, Gun Violence, Loosely Interpreted History, Near Death Experiences, OK Corral, Pining, Snakes, Unrequited Wyatt/Doc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 04:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11028219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Briar_Elwood/pseuds/besully
Summary: The night at the homestead starts with Waverly and Wynonna asking Doc about things history got wrong about his life. It turns into Doc reminiscing on old times.(Or: 5 Times Wyatt Earp Saved Doc Holliday's Life and 1 Time Doc Had to Save It Himself)





	Just The Sidekick

**Author's Note:**

> I did a lot of research for this, but I'm also playing fast and loose with some details. Just like the show, okay?  
> (Fun fact: Did you know the Gunfight at the OK Corral didn't actually happen by the OK Corral?)

It’s a late night at the homestead, a few beers and a bottle of whiskey out on the table, when Waverly asks,

“You know there are only two kills actually credited to you?”

It takes Doc a moment to realize who she’s talking to and when he does, he looks positively outraged.

“ _Two?_ ”

Waverly giggles, like that’s exactly the reaction she was hoping for. Doc looks to Wynonna for backup, but the older sister just shrugs, leaning back in her chair and taking a drink from her beer.

“I killed far more people than just _two_.”

Waverly twitches a shoulder, still grinning. “Yeah, but they can only prove two were yours. Why is that?”

Doc takes a shot angrily, thinking on his response before saying anything. “Well, perhaps my craftsmanship was too excellent for it to be tracked.”

Wynonna snorts. “Sure.”

Doc throws her a withering glare, but Wynonna doesn’t look cowed. Doc turns his glare back on Waverly, leaning in close.

“What else did they get wrong about me in the history books?”

Waverly shrugs. “I dunno. You tell me. They say you were married.”

Doc looks absolutely bamboozled. “Who in the world to?”

“Big Nose Kate,” Waverly answers with a smile and a drink. Doc nods after a moment.

“So that’s why you asked me about her when you were tryin’ to figure out if I was who I am or not.”

“Wait, so were you married?” Wynonna asks, sitting up with interest.

“Never,” Doc responds quickly. “But I can see where people would get the misconception. We spent a lot of time together, but considerin’ how ugly we left things ‘n’ how ugly things could get while we were together… I never woulda married _Kate_ of all people.” He turns his attention back on Waverly. “What else?”

Waverly thinks for a moment, her face brightening suddenly. “There’s a story about your last words before you died.”

Doc raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“They say you said ‘this is funny’,” Waverly continued with a nod. “Apparently in reference to not having your shoes on?”

Doc huffs lightly, and the smile this time is soft--almost sad. “Musta been Wyatt came up with the story. ‘N’ I know where he got it from. What else?”

“How about when you and Wyatt first met,” Wynonna offers. “There’s the story Wyatt told, but there’s nothing to back it up.”

A small smile grows on Doc’s lips, his moustache twitching upwards slightly. “Mm. Yes. Well, that’s because Wyatt was being generous. Let me tell you what really happened. You see, Wyatt actually saved my life that day. In fact, the nature of mine and your great great grandpappy’s relationship meant we were saving each other’s asses all the time. We had to be watching the other’s back lest he get a bullet to the head or a knife to the throat. But there were five times that stick out in my mind that Wyatt saved my life--or at least prolonged it--and one time that I had to save myself.”

 

1.

So the story of how your forebear and myself met starts in the Long Branch Saloon just as Wyatt told. But the way he told it I was the hero of the hour. Wyatt exaggerated. In reality, he was the hero. The story starts the same. I was in the saloon, spending the day practicing my trade--poker, not dentistry. And it just so happened the unsavory characters sitting at the other end of the table that day were the men Wyatt was hunting down--Tobe Driscall and Ed Morrison. They had a couple friends loitering around the room--a few were acting like bodyguards behind Tobe and Ed, a few at the bar drinking, and a few were harassing the women patrons. Quite the party, and I was highly outnumbered. All the same, when the scoundrels started accusing me of cheating, I wasn’t about to let it go.

“Now, now, gentlemen, let’s be reasonable here,” I said coolly, my hand resting on my pistol, ready to draw should the need arise.

“Don’t you call me unreasonable! You’re the one stealin’ my money!” one of them--I think it was Ed--whined.

“Well I happen to be a professional card player,” I said calmly, “and it wouldn’t be very good business for me to be cheatin’ at my profession, don’t you think? Just accept that you’re poor losers and be on your way.”

The gun barrel was in my face quick as a flash, but I didn’t really see the need for gun violence in my favorite saloon quite yet, so I was up on my feet, twisting the poor man’s wrist and probably snapping a few bones, and the pistol fell to the floor.

Up until this point I had yet to realize that Tobe and Ed had come with so many friends. Since they were so scattered around the room, it hadn’t occurred to me that all these men were here together. So before I could pick up the fallen pistol and point it right back in Ed’s face, a pair of arms were around my torso and myself and another body were hitting the floor hard. I tried grabbing for my pistol or even my knife, my head spinning from the fall, but the bastard on top of me grabbed a hold of my wrists fast and there was nothing I could do. While I’m one of the best when it comes to a fight with guns or knives, once it’s down to fists I’m not that proficient. Especially when my opponent has twelve other men backing him up and is as big as a train.

I got a fist to the face before I could blink, and I tried kicking and twisting out from underneath the man, but it was no use. I tried breaking my wrists out of his hold, but the man let them go easy and delivered another punch, my lip splitting. I went for my pistols again and managed to get them both, but two booted feet kicked them out of my hands and stomped down, breaking a couple fingers. Another fist connected with my cheek and my head was starting to swim. With both hands pinned and a big barrel of a man sitting on my chest, I had nowhere to go and nothing I could do but take the beating. When it finally stopped I couldn’t quite believe it. It took me a moment or two to clear the blood from my eyes and then I saw the barrel of my own goddamn pistol aimed square between my eyes.

“Now listen, gentlemen,” I slurred quickly, “I’m sure there’s somethin’ we can work out--”

“I’m gonna enjoy killin’ you,” Ed bit. He cocked the gun and I knew it was over. There’d been less glory than I’d hoped, but I was going and I was going with a fight. I couldn’t be too upset about the situation--after all, I’d gotten myself into it.

The crack that followed confused me. It was too far away to be the final thing I heard, and there was no pain, no smell of smoke, no nothing that old Ed had gotten the best of me. Then I saw Ed twisting around with a roar of pain and rage and the boots on my hands left to turn their focus on the new enemy.

In the state I was in, I only managed to take down two or three of the thugs who’d ganged up on me, but all twelve or so were unconscious or on the floor within about two minutes of the first gunshot. It was only then that I finally laid eyes on the man who saved my life. He gave me a smile and walked up to me, stepping over the strewn bodies easily. He held out a hand, pistol already back in its holster.

“Wyatt Earp.”

I took the hand, a little befuddled at the situation I’d found myself in. “John Henry Holliday. Most people call me Doc.”

“Well, Doc. Pleasure makin’ your acquaintance.” He was calm and confident, not ruffled by the fight in the least. I couldn’t help but stare.

“Likewise.”

 

2.

The second time Wyatt Earp saved my life it was once again my own fault. As I’m sure you can imagine, I tended to leave a trail of heartbroken young ladies in my wake--now, don’t you give me that look, I cannot help my natural charm. Most of the time I had the good fortune of never having to return to those towns. But this one time Wyatt and I rode into a small little town with the intention of getting a good night’s rest in a real bed before continuing on our way. I hadn’t even noticed the name of this town and, if I had, I might’ve insisted we keep a moving.

We met up with her first while we were tying up the horses before we’d even had the chance to walk indoors. I barely had time to register her face before my cheek was stinging something fierce. Immediately Wyatt burst out laughing behind me. With one wary eye kept on the lass fuming in front of me, I turned to give Wyatt a look to convey my unamusement. He just shook his head and gestured at the woman.

“Who’s your friend, Doc?”

Now, Waverly, you mentioned Kate Horony, otherwise known as Big Nose Kate. As I said earlier, our relationship never entailed anything remotely marital. After all, it was built on far too many betrayals, not the least of which being the time she accused me of stealing from a stage coach. But I digress.

“Wyatt, meet Kate Horony. Kate, Wyatt Earp,” I said, rubbing at my tender cheek.

Wyatt reached past my horse and held his hand out for Kate. Kate glanced at it dismissively before turning her glare back on me. She spat on my boots then turned heel and stalked away. To be truthful, I was relieved that seemed to be the end of it. But, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, it wasn’t.

Wyatt didn’t ask any more questions about Kate as we got ourselves two rooms and paid for a few drinks. I’m not sure whether he gathered I wasn’t really in the mood to explain or whether he didn’t think the situation needed explanation. I wouldn’t have been surprised either way. After finishing our drinks and a quick game of poker, we bid the other good night and retired to our rooms. Laying down on a real mattress was heavenly after several weeks out in the desert, and I fell asleep that night quick and easy. However, my blissful slumber was interrupted quite rudely by a sudden weight on my chest and the crack of a gun far too close for comfort.

I woke with a start but didn’t get the chance to reach for my pistol or even move that far as I came to the realization there was a rather sharp knife pressed against my throat. Blinking the sleep out of my eyes, Kate came into focus, her right hand holding a smoking pistol--my own pistol, in fact--high in the air and wearing a wild look in her eyes. She let the gun drop to her side and leaned in to hiss in my ear.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ die tonight, _Doc Holliday_.” She spat my name like a curse and I held back the urge to flinch.

“Now, darlin’, why don’t you calm down for just a moment, and we can talk ‘bout this, all right?”

“You said Mina’s name, jackass,” she said, pulling back to meet my eyes with a withering glare.

“A perfectly honest mista--” I cut off quickly as she pressed the knife down, cutting the skin just enough to sting. Knowing what I did of dear Miss Kate, I had no doubt she would do the deed if I pushed her far enough.

Luckily, it was at that point that your grandpappy came to the rescue. I’m sure he’d heard the gunshot and threw on a pair of boots and grabbed his gun before racing to my room. Kate didn’t glance back, but I could tell she realized her time was about up because she readjusted her grip on the knife, ready to slash my throat wide open before Wyatt ran over and wrangled the weapon out of her hands.

“Whoa, hey there, missy, there’s no need for that.”

Kate turned a practically poisonous glare onto Wyatt. “Not only did he say my sister’s name while I was on top of him, he _slept_ with her too.”

“How do you know--?” Kate turned her glare back onto me.

“She’s my sister. We talk.”

“And she’s not gettin’ this treatment?” I said incredulously.

“Again, she’s my sister. And I know your charms, Mina doesn’t have the fortitude to resist them like I do.”

“We had an open agreement, Kate,” I tried. “You were fuckin’ men up and down the street.”

“What don’t you get ‘bout the fact Wilhelmina is my _sister_?”

To the side I heard a quiet snort, and both Kate and I whipped around to look at Wyatt. He wiped the smirk off his face quickly and gestured.

“No, please, go on.”

“I’d appreciate it if you gave me back my knife, Mr. Wyatt Earp,” Kate said, holding out her hand.

“Now, now, you don’t really intend on killin’ Doc, do you?”

Kate didn’t answer, just continued holding out her hand impatiently. When she decided Wyatt wouldn’t be giving her the knife back, she picked my pistol back up and pressed it against my temple. I hissed, the barrel still hot from the earlier shot, tried to hold back a painful cough, and drew back as far as I could from what was surely to be my end.

It was a blessing that your great grandfather could move as fast as he did countless times throughout our lives. This was one of those times. Before Kate could pull the trigger, Wyatt once again disarmed her, this time pulling her off the bed and bringing her arms around behind her.

“All right then, missy, I believe a night in the local jailhouse might do you some good.” He hauled her out of the room, Kate screaming obscenities at me the entire way.

By the time Wyatt returned, I had gotten out of bed and dressed, sitting in a chair in the corner, gingerly holding a handkerchief to the cut on my neck. Wyatt gave me a once over and came and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Seems your friend Kate was a little liberal with pain medication tonight,” he said casually. “Should be back to normal in the morning after sleepin’ it off.”

I nodded in acknowledgement, continuing to dab at my wound. She’d gotten deeper than I’d thought and the damn thing wouldn’t stop bleeding.

“You doin’ all right, Doc?” Wyatt asked. I looked up at him, coming to the clear realization that if I’d come into town on my own that night I’d already be dead. The man looked at me with sympathetic eyes, no trace of amusement left on his face.

“She’s someone special, isn’t she?” he asked. I shrugged.

“Suppose.”

It was true, Kate was special. Special enough that the next morning I was able to apologize profusely, and she apologized for trying to kill me and then decided to join Wyatt and myself as we hit the road once more. I liked Kate, and I did like her a lot. But she was never as special as a particular someone else.

 

3.

From the stories you’ve heard about back in the day, you may have already gathered that I had a slight issue with my temper. It got me into many a scuffle, including what finally drove Kate away for good and a few near bullets to the head--at least one quite literally. I have no excuse for my poor behavior except that at every waking moment I was well aware of my oncoming demise and felt like I was sorely being cheated by fate and life itself. I cannot deny that there was a certain part of myself that wanted to take control of the way I went out and perhaps, subconsciously, that was why I put myself in so many precarious situations.

This particular instance happened to be the night before the gunfight at the OK Corral. One of the Cowboys who happened to be at the fight--actually, the coward who ran, claiming he was unarmed--Ike Clanton, had been going up and down town, telling everyone that come morning myself and the Earp brothers would “no longer be a problem”. I finally caught up to the yellow-bellied bastard near midnight, already a tad drunk. Ike, however, was roaringly drunk. I stalked up to Ike, intending on putting the idiot back in his place.

“Ike Clanton, I hear you intend on killin’ me,” I said, shoving the glass of whiskey out of the fucker’s hand. He turned his head towards me unsteadily, his face sliding from drunken slack to bright with recognition.

“Yes, I do,” Ike said proudly, stumbling as he turned to face me directly.

“Well, why don’t you just get the job done?” I asked. “Or you too yella?” I spread my arms wide in invitation. For good measure, I even held my coat open so he could see my gun holsters were actually empty--downsides of being friends with the local lawmen. Of course I still had my knife secured to my belt, but no one could see it even as I held my coat open. I would follow the Earps’ law but only up to a point.

“I might just do that,” Ike said, stepping forward in what I believe was supposed to be a threatening manner. I stepped forward as well and, before the imbecile could even blink, punched him right in the mouth. Ike staggered backwards, and I moved to continue the beating. However, I had not realized Wyatt and his brother Morgan were in the room. Wyatt was not currently wearing a badge so when he saw me getting into another fight he’d told Morg to intervene. All I knew was suddenly there was someone holding my arms behind my back and I was being dragged outside. I tried breaking out of the hold and rushing Ike, but a bout of coughing stood in my path. By the time I could breathe somewhat normally again we were outside, Morg standing warily between myself and that son of a bitch Ike who’d followed us into the street.

Ike looked like a true maniac. His eyes were crazed and his hair was wild. The man was sweating alcohol, and I could smell it off him from where he stood a few feet away. Morg, to his credit, was trying hard to keep us separated.

“Now, boys, let’s keep it civil here. Both of ya’ll need to go home and sober up.”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Ike slurred.

“For once, we agree,” I said, gesturing broadly. The cur’s face split open in a grotesque smile.

“Some friends are comin’ in the morning for you Earp brothers, but I think I’m gonna take care of this lunger here tonight.”

 _Lunger_. I hate that word. I’d kill him that night if I had to use my bare fucking hands.

…

I realize my temper issues seem to be making a return as I tell this story. I do apologize, ladies, I do not intend to make either of you uncomfortable. It’s just that man was a coward in the worst sort of way, and it took us far too long to finally put him down. I will try to curb my anger.

At that derogative, I finally pulled out my knife and strode forward. Morg put a hand on my shoulder, but I ignored him.

“Doc, hold on now, give me the knife.”

At the sight of my blade, Ike pulled out his gun, but Morg was focused on the knife to notice. Morg grabbed my hand to try and pull the knife out of it, and I tried to wrest it back. Ike meanwhile raised the gun, and I watched the barrel aim straight between my eyes. Morg was gonna be the reason I died, as he tried to uphold the law and prevent me from just being done with the bastard right then and there, and I couldn’t even blame him for it.

But Wyatt had followed us outside--along with most of the room--and he had been paying close attention.

Suddenly Wyatt was in my line of sight, easily tearing the pistol out of Ike’s hand. Finally Morg caught on that something else was going on and let me go. Wyatt turned Ike’s pistol on Ike, and Ike scrambled backwards, nearly falling over in the process.

“Might be you need a night in a cell, Clanton,” Wyatt said calmly. “I do believe openly carrying a firearm is illegal in these parts.”

Ike didn’t even respond. The gutless coward just turned and ran off into the darkness, yelling back to us, “You’ll be done for in the mornin’! Just you wait!”

I’m not sure where Morgan went at that point. Another coughing fit overcame me and I came out of it to Wyatt standing by me, watching with concern.

“Okay there, Doc?” he said, helping me stand up straight.

“‘M fine,” I coughed gruffly. “You shouldn’ta let ‘im go.”

“I expect we’ll be able to deal with Ike Clanton in the morning. Him and his friends.”

“You’re not worried about that?” I asked. “He seems fairly set on killin’ us.”

“We’re on the right side of the law here, Doc. We’ll turn out all right.”

I merely grunted my disbelief. My vision was starting to spin from the combination of alcohol, adrenaline, and tuberculosis. Wyatt put a steady hand on my shoulder and looked me hard in the eye.

“For now, you should get some rest and sober up. All right?”

For a moment, I could only stare. I’ll never understand why your great great grandfather decided I was worth befriending. But over and over again, he kept proving that I couldn’t survive without him. I had no idea what to do with that information.

 

4.

Now, you two already know that I etched Wyatt’s initials onto Peacemaker in celebration of his fiftieth kill. What you don’t know is that the gesture was also me trying to find some way in which to express my gratitude. You see, with that fiftieth kill, Wyatt had once again saved my life.

We were on what’s apparently become known as the Vendetta Ride. We’d been hunting down Cowboys for months--enough that I’d lost track. My sense of time wasn’t helped by the fact the tuberculosis was getting worse--though I wouldn’t admit it. We regularly had to stop due to my inability to stay upright on my own damn horse every now and again. I know I was slowing the hunting party down, and I’ll never know why Wyatt didn’t just send my ass back home because I know how set he was on his mission of revenge. I kept forcing us to stop--sometimes losing an entire day, and I hated it with such a foul passion. But I put that hate to good work whenever we came across any of the men we were hunting.

The fiftieth kill was near the end of the ride. We came across a camp of four or five Cowboys, poorly hidden among a craggy formation of rocks. It looks like they were waiting for us, but their preparation didn’t matter. We still went in, guns a-blazing. I don’t know the names of these particular individuals, so I’ll just refer to them as Ginger, Tiny Eyes, Blonde Moustache, Purple Shirt, and Big Chin. Wyatt had Blonde Moustache and Purple Shirt, and I took Tiny Eyes down with a shot to the shoulder immediately. While I did that, though, Ginger had the opportunity to shot my pistol out of my hand, and it flew into a bunch of gnarly bushes. I almost dove for it, but Big Chin rushed me, arms around my torso, knocking us both to the ground.

Despite the size of Big Chin’s chin, nothing else about him was particularly formidable, so I was able to easily reverse the situation, rolling us over so I had the advantage. One well placed punch had Big Chin unconscious, and I quickly scrambled back to my feet. I glanced quickly at Wyatt, but he was handling Blonde Moustache and Purple Shirt just fine--both of the Cowboys having taken cover behind too-skinny trees. Ginger, however, was reaiming his gun at me, and Tiny Eyes was slowly getting back to his feet. I looked over to where my pistol was hiding in the bushes and decided the risk wasn’t worth it. So I took shelter behind a rock as a bullet whizzed past me and then ran at Ginger with all the strength I had.

Disarming Ginger wasn’t difficult. His emotions were running too high--his fear, his desperation--for it to be a chore to disarm him. Smirking, I pointed the man’s own gun between his eyes.

“Go to hell.”

I should not have taken the time to give my little quip. It gave Tiny Eyes just the right amount of time to aim carefully and shoot the gun out of my hands, the bullet grazing my fingers.

“God _dammit_!” I barked, pulling my bleeding fingers to my chest and out of harm’s way. Ginger’s look of resigned horror flashed into triumph, and I received a mighty fist right to the gut. Natural instinct kicked in, and I coughed harshly, stumbling backwards, my lungs instantly on fire. One cough led to another, and the next thing I knew I was on my hands and knees and the taste of blood was on my tongue. From that position, I received a vicious kick to the gut from I do not know who, and I rolled, head swimming, trying to get out of harm’s way so I could recover and get back in the fight. But I just kept coughing.

I lost some time at that point. I was vaguely aware of a few more blows from either Ginger or Tiny Eyes--or possibly both--and I’m fairly sure I heard a gun or two cocking, but my world was mostly taken up by the burning in my throat and lungs and the taste of blood spilling from my lips. By the time the coughing fit finally started to calm down, the blows had stopped and a pair of arms were picking me off the ground to hold me close. I panicked for a second, thinking the arms belonged to one of the Cowboys, but Wyatt’s voice broke through the haze.

“Hey now, it’s just me, Doc, breathe.”

I let out a great sigh of relief, which triggered another small coughing fit, and relaxed into the familiar hold.

“You get ‘em?” I managed to ask after a moment.

“No thanks to you,” Wyatt said, a note of amusement dancing in his voice. I smiled grimly and readjusted myself so I could get back to my feet. Wyatt quickly put a hand on my shoulder and pushed.

“Stay,” he said gently. “Get some rest. We’ll get back on the road in the morning.”

I couldn’t find it in myself to argue, especially as I wasn’t entirely sure whether the voice was real or coming from fevered dreams.

 

5.

The fifth and final time Wyatt ever saved my life was years after the OK Corral and Vendetta Ride. We’d been on the road with no sign of civilization for a few months, tracking down a man who’d killed an entire train car of people--seemingly just for the fun of it. The outlaw was more animal than man so when he realized we were on his trail, he found it easy to stay hidden and ahead of us in the wild, never going close to any towns along the way. My health had recently taken a terrible turn for the worse, but Wyatt was insistent that I would be fine, and truth be told, I didn’t want to stay behind and die. I wanted to die on the road, preferably in a blaze of glory once we’d finally caught up with our target.

As you well know, I wasn’t going to get my wish.

It had felt like we hadn’t stopped for rest in days. There were only a few drops of water left in either of our canteens, and we were well out of food, resorting to catching rabbits and skinning snakes to keep our bellies from going empty. Since it’d been months since we’d last seen a town, my boots were torn and falling apart, barely staying on my feet. A layer of dirt was caked on our skins, trails of sweat fighting their way through it.

Every now and again, we’d have to stop and give me a moment to learn how to breathe again when a coughing fit hit. I hated it, and I’m sure Wyatt hated it as well, but he never said anything. Just waited patiently and spoke in reassuring tones as I tried to control myself again. I was always grateful for that. Never knew any other man to treat a lunger with such care.

One time I started coughing and the next thing I knew I was laying on my back on the ground, my tattered boots off and a blanket over me. A fire was crackling beside me, and Wyatt was by the horses, adjusting their bridles. I tried to sit up to say something to him, but I was interrupted by yet another coughing fit. I curled in on myself, laying on my side, praying to any god who could hear to lessen the pain. I guess no one one heard.

Except Wyatt, of course, who left the horses immediately and came to my side, pressing a wet cloth to my forehead. Where he got the water, I’ve got no idea, but it felt like a blessing.

“We should keep movin’,” I said hoarsely. “We’re already fallin’ behind.”

“One more night won’t end this ride, Doc,” Wyatt assured me. “Get some rest.”

“You should keep goin’, at least,” I tried. “I’m just holdin’ you back.”

“Never,” Wyatt said. “You could never hold me back.”

I wanted to laugh or comment or something, but I didn’t have the energy in me. Wyatt held the cloth to my forehead for a bit longer, then stood up to continue making camp.

I was near falling asleep when we both heard it. One of the most ominous sounds a man can hear in the desert. The rattling of a snake. The sound was far too close, somewhere behind me, but my limbs felt heavy as a half ton weight each, and I couldn’t move. Not that that would’ve been a particularly good idea, as rattlers tend to hate sudden movements.

Over by the horses I could see Wyatt had heard it too, and maybe had even found it, his eyes fixed on something just a few feet away from me, his hand slowly reaching for his knife. All I could do was watch him and wait, too tired and too sick to do a goddamn thing to fend for myself.

Wyatt was fast, but not quite fast enough to best a rattler. I felt the fangs sink into my thigh just as a I heard the whistle of Wyatt’s knife slicing through the air. The snake let go of my leg with an enraged hiss and I could feel it flop helplessly off me. Wyatt stormed up and stomped on its head with his heel, the crunch satisfyingly loud and permanent. A small part of me cheered, but it was buried deep under the screaming pain in my thigh. My vision was swimming and my head felt heavy, and the bolts of pain shooting up my spine were worse than anything I’d ever previously experienced.

Through the haze of pain and fever, I felt Wyatt’s arms readjust me so my head and chest was higher than the bite. I heard the ripping of fabric and then felt a tight hand grip my elbow.

“Bite on this,” Wyatt said. I took the small but sturdy stick he was holding out and bit down, and Wyatt moved the hand on my elbow to my hand and gripped tight.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and then his knife was slicing into my flesh and I saw stars. Two small incisions was all he made, in a ‘x’ on top of the bite, but by the time he was done, I felt queasy and lightheaded and could sense a bout of coughing coming on. Wyatt let go of my hand and I let the stick drop out of my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut tight as Wyatt tried to suck the venom out. A few moments passed and my world was narrowing to a small pinpointed view before Wyatt’s hand clapped down on my shoulder.

“Feelin’ any better, Doc?” he asked, sounding rather worried. I wondered if my head was twisting his tone to sound more distressed than it actually was. I managed to shake my head weakly, and Wyatt let out a growl of frustration.

“All right, the nearest town should only be an hour’s ride east if we ride fast and hard. Let’s get you on that horse. We’ll get you to a physician in no time.”

Through my pinpointed vision I was able to see my socked feet laying in the dirt, my worthless boots to the side.

“This is funny,” I whispered hoarsely. Wyatt stopped his work untying the horses and frowned at me.

“What’s funny?”

I tried to indicate my feet. “Always thought I’d die with my boots on.”

Wyatt’s response was tense and harsh. “You’re not dying today, Doc. Not on my watch.”

I don’t remember the ride and I don’t remember arriving in the town. Apparently Wyatt was able to find a doctor fairly quick and the doctor was well versed in snake bites. Apparently he told Wyatt the area we had stopped was notorious for housing many rattlers and we’d probably just had the misfortune of finding a nest. I do remember waking up because of a violent series of coughs, racking my lungs raw, the all-too familiar taste of blood sitting on my tongue.

Wyatt was by my side in an instant, a wet cloth--cold, this time--in his hand. He used it to mop up the sweat on my brow, his other hand resting gently on my arm.

“Thought I’d lost you there for a moment, Doc.”

I hummed in acknowledgement, shifting to find a more comfortable spot on the lumpy mattress. I wanted to tell him how grateful I was he was still there, that he hadn’t made sure I was okay and immediately gone off to catch the outlaw we’d been chasing. I wanted to tell him how grateful I was for his friendship because every man and woman before him had just seen another lunger, angry and foolish. I wanted to say I didn’t know why he decided I was worth his friendship, but that I thanked the fates every day for it. I knew I wouldn’t have lasted half as long without him.

But he’d just gotten married to Josie a few months back, and I’d lost my chance. He’d found his happiness. I was just the sidekick. As had been proven to me again and again by the number of times Wyatt had been the hero and saved my sorry life.

A few weeks after I woke up, Wyatt came to me with a case in a town named Purgatory. He wanted me to come along. I told him farewell.

 

+.

About a month and a half after Wyatt left, I was about ready to give up on holding on. I knew it was the only thing keeping me here, sheer willpower, hoping to see Wyatt maybe one last time, but I was so tired and in so much pain, I was ready to call it. I was done.

But then a certain woman came into my room. Blonde, striking, otherworldly. She introduced herself as the Stone Witch, and a part of me rose up in triumph. All that talk of hoodoo-voodoo, Wyatt had said. No, I was right, and the proof was right here before me.

“I’ve heard you’ve gotten yourself in a bit of a fix,” she said smoothly, walking closer, running her hand over the back of the chair Wyatt used to sit. “Man of the world, willing to take on everything and anything life hands him, but fate decided to step in and take away your health.”

“You offerin’ a solution?” I asked, annoyed by the round-about way she seemed to be taking this. She was a witch. Surely she could give me what I wanted. She smiled and her smile should’ve been chilling, but I was so desperate to feel wholly human again that I didn’t notice.

“I can give you your health back. For a price, of course. Raise that price and I’ll even throw in eternal longevity. Easy ritual, really. Should have you back on your feet in a day or two.”

“What’s the price?” I asked warily. Knowing what I’d heard of witches, I knew it could’ve been something like the betrayal of Wyatt or someone else’s life. But she just told me a fairly high number of gold coins and that was it.

Two weeks later, Wyatt returned from Purgatory. The Stone Witch was still in town, hanging around the local saloon, hiding in dark corners and making deals. Wyatt had no idea. He took my deal with her as an unforgivable betrayal, proclaiming me dead and telling me I was nothing more than a memory--one he sorely wished to forget. And then he was gone, and everything I had hoped for gone with him. The Stone Witch decided to leave town the day after, and I followed her, thinking she had no idea I was tailing her all the way back to Purgatory. She let me continue to think that for about a week, going about her business, attending the Last Spike ceremony like she was none the wiser.

Then she threw me down the well.


End file.
